


Ice Cream Assassin

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Series: The Choirgirl Set [3]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Dark, F/M, M/M, Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5716438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully finds out what her partner's been doing, and she doesn't like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice Cream Assassin

  
Mulder is going to pay.

I have been sitting in this horrid, fetid little motel for three and a  
half hours. 10:30, Mr. Mulder. I told you seven on the dot and I meant  
seven on the motherfucking dot.

I am just about ready to leave when I hear the awkward sound of a key  
trying to fit a lock. I stay where I am, sitting in the chair facing  
away from him. Finally, after a few muttered curses, he manages to wrench  
the door open. I don’t look at him.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbles. “Scully, we have to talk.”

“I’m not here to talk, Mulder.”

“This has got to stop, Scully.”

That does turn my head. This. This has been our unspoken arrangement  
for a long while. In this, as in all parts of our shared life, I have to  
make the tough choices. He never disagrees with me, he just comes when I  
call, his mistress in this situation, not to be spoken of in his real  
life.

“Did your wife find out about us?”

He grins at that. “Yeah, she says that I have to share.”

“Tell her I don’t share,” I reply. “Where the hell were you, Mulder?”

“Oh–” and he’s suddenly very awkward. “I was– I was– nowhere. Just out.”

“So you were three hours late for nothing?” I ask, gazing into his eyes,  
which have gone to their lightest shade of hazel, almost blue.

“No. I was being stupid. I was at some Marriott, getting drunk. Sitting  
and thinking,” he says hastily. He comes closer, and I do smell the  
alcohol on him. He licks his lips, and I feel my pulse rise. I want this  
man, I really do.

“Is it over?” I ask, like it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. We  
promised each other when this– this– started up, it would be an  
unimportant part of our relationship. Our partnership, our trust, it matters  
more than a few hours a week in bad motel rooms.

“No. I’m greedy. Greedier than you could ever imagine,” he says, crossing  
the last gap between us physically, burying me in his arms.

He breaks a rule, he traces my face with his fingers, then follows with  
his lips. When I try to push him away, he merely swats my hand away, and  
I find I don’t mind it, and I start kissing him back.

It’s incredible. We’re kissing the hell out of each other, taking our  
time. Usually between us, it’s rush rush rush, get it out of the way.  
But instead, his hand knots in my hair, the other running up and down my  
neck, making me shiver. I do the same thing, brushing my hand across his  
shoulder. We’re driving each other crazy, and we’re still fully clothed.

He murmurs something into my neck. “What was that, Mulder?”

“Too many clothes,” he says. “Too many clothes.”

I nod, and take off my jacket, and he follows suit, pun intended, he’s  
got his coat and tie off in seconds, and I’m already working the buttons  
of my shirt. He shakes his head, pushes my hands away, and undoes the  
buttons himself, pausing to tease my breasts with his mouth.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I gasp when he tosses both shirt and  
bra aside. “Not fair.”

He nods, and that shirt is off faster than anything. He pushes me back on  
the bed, and I start to squirm and shimmy out of my skirt. He has this  
look in his eyes, a dangerous look. He bends down, and promptly rids me of the  
skirt.

“You’re in an odd mood tonight. Really, what happened in the bar?” I  
manage to ask.

“Nothing important.”

I feel a twinge of worry work its way through the blur of sex and  
sensation. Something happened, a voice chirps in the back of my head.  
Something happened. He’s buried his head into my shoulder, nipping and  
kissing, hands everywhere all at once.

“You can tell me,” I whisper. “Mulder–”

His eyes meet mine. “I want you. Please…”

My insides turn to mush. Good Lord, where did I give up this much  
control?

“I’m not stopping you,” I reply. He groans and slides into me. And it  
feels good. So it goes, thrust and counterthrust, the friction building,  
lips meeting lips, hands roaming, and it goes higher and higher until  
finally I call for him, clutching to him. A few moments after, he does  
the same.

We slowly relax, not saying much of anything. He regards me uneasily,  
his hazel eyes glittering as he surveys my body. There are words on the  
tip of his tongue, but he can’t say them.

“Was there another woman tonight?” I ask, feeling a little twinge of  
fear resurface. “Is that it?”

He stares at me incredulously. Then he shakes his head vigorously.

“No– God. Not another woman.”

“Another man?” I tease. “Let me guess. You got toasted and let Krycek fuck  
you. Is that it?”

He goes absolutely silent. The color drains from his face. It can’t be.  
Mulder? Mulder is so straight he makes a ruler look twisted. And even if  
he were– he’d never, never, NEVER sleep with a man who killed–

“You didn’t,” I whisper. “I was just goofing on you. Tell me you didn’t  
fuck him.”

He stares at me in horror. “Scully–”

I move back from him, my eyes wide with horror and rage. “You did not do  
this. He killed my sister. He killed your fucking *father*, Mulder, we  
both know what he’s done– you didn’t do it! Tell me you didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t do anything except not tell him no,” he replies softly.

I don’t even say anything. I just flee the bedroom, right into the  
shower. I turn it on as hot as I can stand, and just stand there, feeling  
the water scald me. Of course, in my hurry, I forget to lock the door.

“Scully, we have to talk about this.”

“What do we have to talk about?” I ask. “You got drunk and slept with  
your father’s killer. If you’re feeling guilty, good. Don’t ask me to  
help you assuage your conscience.”

The water is so hot my skin is starting to turn red, but I don’t feel  
it any more. I turn it up again, liking the feel of the heat stinging  
against my skin. I trusted him. I’ve trusted my heart, soul, and body to  
this man. And I’ve been scorched.

“I don’t want it to be over.”

“Too bad for you. You don’t get to have me, Mulder,” I say. “Get out of  
here. I don’t need to hear or see you any more tonight.”

“Scully–”

“Just go.”

There is no sound except the rush of water, my own breathing and his.  
Finally, I hear him whisper– ‘I’m sorry’ and leave.

I let the shower run to cold water. My finger prune up. When I get out  
of the water, I feel waterlogged and sick. I shiver, but not with chill.  
With disgust. I allowed this betrayal to happen. I wrap a towel around  
myself and walk into the bedroom. It’s dark except for the glow of the  
neon lights from outside. I don’t turn on the light. I don’t sob like some  
silly Victorian heroine jilted by her Byronic man. I lay down on the bed  
and think in the dark.

My thoughts pace the wind– So he’s done me wrong. What else is new? He  
ditches me all the time, he constantly fails to give me *vital*  
information, hell, he knew I was sterile for months and neglected to  
share. I trust him in all ways. So he done me wrong– par for the course  
for Mr. Mulder, isn’t that right?

I still don’t cry. There’s enough grief in my life to waste tears on the  
fact Mulder and Krycek are fucking each other.

He always had this thing for Mulder– I always knew it about Krycek. I  
did. Never would have guessed about Mulder, never would have guessed, was  
it rape? No, no, Mulder didn’t say no. Did he say yes?

I’m almost nauseated by the fact Mulder went straight from Krycek to me.  
Driven to revenge the fact he was sub– I know Mulder. No way he was on  
top. Why does Mulder think he can revenge the injustices of his life on  
my body? Asshole.

I don’t let my anger get hot. I keep it cold, rational. Fire burns, sure,  
but so does ice. I consider my options. Running to the FBI and screaming  
bloody murder isn’t one. Killing Mulder and dumping his body in the  
Chesapeake would be nice but really hard to pull off. Maybe I can make a  
deal with the Consortium– I smirk at my own gallows humor.

Ask for a transfer? No. That would be cowardly first off, and second,  
I’ll be damned if the X-Files aren’t as much mine as his. No fucking way  
I’m letting Mulder get sole custody of those. No. Dana Scully does not  
run away.

I know exactly what I’ll do.

I will go in tomorrow like nothing happened. I will do my job, for myself, not  
Mulder. I will not say one word about Krycek. I won’t let him say one  
word about Krycek. I may even let him back into my bed at some point. But  
not one word will I say to let him know what I think or feel.

It’ll drive him crazy. He’ll expect me to scream at him, to do something.  
To react. But to make him wait forever for the other shoe to drop– it’s  
cold. It’s damn cold. He deserves it, and I don’t feel a twinge of guilt  
over it.

My fingers trace a path over my stomach; it’s an interesting sensation.  
It tingles, I think my flesh is actually crawling. I like it. Why on  
earth do people associate it with fear and disgust? I shiver with the  
feeling, my fingers doing the walking while I think…

We left the air conditioner on, and it’s freezing in here. I realize I  
want to go home to my own bed and sleep. So I roll over, turn on the  
lamp, dress, and prepare to leave. Luckily, this dump is by the hour.

On the way out of the parking lot, I notice Mulder’s car is still there.  
I raise an eyebrow, but shrug it off. I can’t muster up any concern over  
it. Maybe he was waiting for me. Maybe he’s getting a little backdoor  
action from Krycek in the backseat. I’m too tired to care. I simply drive  
up the highway, and I’ll come out a winner in the end.

I just have to keep telling myself that.

 


End file.
